


Tugging at My Heartstrings

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Knife!Simmons, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Protectiveness, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 06:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: A weakness in Simmons’ cybernetic parts is exploited by the enemy, causing him to attack anyone in sight and forget his own allies.Except Grif.It’s debatable whether that’s a good thing.





	Tugging at My Heartstrings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).

The mission had started off as terrible so Grif hadn’t imagined it could become any worse.

The northern parts of Chorus were _cold_. Cold enough to be a strong competitor against Sidewinder in the contest of places that could freeze your ass off.

“I’m cold. And hungry. And cold,” Grif muttered even though their armor did a fantastic job of keeping their core temperature stable. But he had snowflakes stuck to his visor, and that automatically meant it was cold, which in turn meant that he was cold, too.

“Shut up,” Simmons hissed back at him. The snow cracked under his boots as he marched forward in a quick pace. “You chose to come here.”

True. It shouldn’t be called a choice, though. It’d been a dilemma. They had to go on a mission today, and it was either clearing the southern plains for mines or marking a safe route through the broken glaciers for stealth missions.

The glaciers were cold, but they didn’t have explosives. So now Grif was leading a small group of soldiers between icy walls that stretched into what appeared to be endless tunnels. Simmons was with him too, naturally. Grif couldn’t even remember when the redhead had signed up to come along. It just happened. Kimball hadn’t even raised an eyebrow about the two Captains sticking together.

And normally, Grif wouldn’t complain. Oh well, he’d always find something to complain about, but not Simmons’ presence. Having Simmons around just meant he had someone to listen to him complain, and that was always a light in the darkness.

Except for the fact that Simmons was having a bad day today. Even worse than Grif’s.

“Yeah, but-“

“Seriously,” Simmons said and almost slipped on a patch of ice. “Shut up. You’re making my headache worse.”

The actual sneer in his voice had Grif bit down on his tongue to prevent any snarky come-back.

Even their soldiers had kept a respectful distance to Simmons during the last few hours, ever since he’d begun to complain about the pains in his head. Grif had discreetly asked Bitters for some aspirin, but the Lieutenant had asked around only to return with a shrug and a hopeless expression. Apparently, painkillers began to run short in a decade long war.

Their surroundings weren’t helping.

“Dead end,” Grif sighed as they stared into a solid block of ice. It had an almost blueish hue; one that Sarge would have called dirty. “Bitters, note that down.”

“I have. Well, I don’t mark the dead ends since we find them all the time. I just mark when we don’t find a dead end. It saves the effort.”

“Hmmm… Good work, Bitters.” Grif turned his head to see Simmons’ arm twitch. Grif almost winced on his behalf. “You okay?”

“I- _Fuck_.” Simmons’ slammed his hands against his helmet. The _smack _echoed against the walls of ice. “I think it’s a migraine.”

“Shit,” Grif muttered, not knowing what else do say.

Simmons whimpered but continued to walk, his boots scraping along the ice.

Grif stayed quiet after that, not risking either a) increasing Simmons’ agony, and b) getting yelled at. But even without Grif egging on him, Simmons’ mood continued to fall. Grif didn’t miss the pained noises escaping Simmons’ helmet, nor the way his body would jerk and twitch.

“How long ‘till we reach the end anyway?” he asked Bitters when Simmons began to limp. The poor guy had to get a sick pass at this point. Even if Simmons would never admit to Kimball that he was feeling unwell.

“Well, we don’t know where the end is,” Bitters answered with a shrug. “So how the hell should I know? Isn’t the whole point of this to try to find the end? _An_ end?”

“Oh yeah. Huh. It didn’t seem that hard on paper.” Grif squinted, turning his head. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular – mainly because there was nothing to look at. Only ice and footsteps in the snow. “Wait. Haven’t we lost some guys? Like five people?”

“Pike and Tibbs took that left tunnel a while ago. Conroy and Edge squeezed into that crack to see if it led anywhere. Dunno where Kasper is. But he hasn’t called for help though, so… And if he’s dead s’not like we can do anything ‘bout it.”

“Very true, Bitters.” He leaned his head back to see the faint, blue light from above. No matter how much he craned his neck, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the sky. Maybe the ice had formed a ceiling above them at this point. Ice tunnels sucked, he decided as he slipped again.

This time he could actually feel his knee groan at the impact. “Ow,” he said and looked up. “Hey, Simmons, give me a hand here.”

The thing was, that no matter how badly a situation sucked, they’d be there to offer the other a hand, pull them up and tell them to suck it up and move on together.

Except this time Simmons didn’t even turn around to see Grif on his knees. He just kept stumbling forward, one hand pressed against his helmet.

“Simmons?”

Grif stood up on his own.

“…Are you okay?” he asked after a moment of hesitation where he watched Simmons’ fist shake at his side.

“You- you fell,” Simmons said, stuttering.

Grif took a step closer. “Yeah. Like, I slipped. Probably scraped a knee. Wanna kiss the boo boo?” There was no reply, no indication that he’d been heard except for the constant twitching. “Seriously. I’m fine. What’s up with you?”

“You fell off the cliff,” Simmons said. His voice was slurring, just a little. Was he drunk? “And- and the Meta… The _ice_. I remember- I-“

Grif could feel the hair rise on his arms. Simmons didn’t sound like this, not usually. Not so haunted, so confused. Was this a traumatic flashback? Some sort of complicated panic attack?

Grif had helped him through those before, but it’d never happened this suddenly, out of nowhere. It’d usually take place in the middle of the night, after a nightmare or hours of restlessness where Simmons had thought too much about things best left alone. Grif knew what to do then; he knew to keep his voice soft, to slowly joke, to ease the mood, to listen, to let Simmons cry, to reassure him, to keep him away from mirrors, to tuck him back in bed.

Right now, Grif had no idea of what to do.

Simmons’ visor had turned towards him. His left arm kept jerking as if it was suffering from spasms. “You’re- You’re…”

“Simmons?” He turned to Bitters in his panic, asking, “What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s having a stroke.” It wasn’t Bitters who answered, but one of the soldiers from Simmons’ squad – Tibbs, Grif thought. She’d returned with Pike, and now they were both staring at their Captain in worry. “Captain Simmons?” she asked, tilting her head.

“My grandad died of a stroke,” Pike let Grif know. “You know, after he got shot in the head.”

“Touching story,” Grif said dryly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Simmons who was shaking in the middle of the narrow path. “Now, can someone come and help me?” He came closer enough to rest a hand on top of the maroon shoulder plates. Simmons never reacted to the touch. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me? You’re being really…” Grif recoiled in horror when he realized Simmons wasn’t muttering words under his breath; it was a mix of unintelligible noises. “Uhm. Help!” he cried, pretty sure this was a very bad symptom when it came to literally anything.

“I know CPR,” Pike offered.

Her teammate snorted at that. “Isn’t that for dead person?”

“Yes, but-“

No one ever heard what Pike was going to say because Simmons, without hesitation, lifted his rifle and fired three rounds through her visor.

The gunshots echoed against the iced walls, drowning out the _thump_ of Pike hitting the ground, dead.

The blood spread quickly through the now, reaching the boots of Tibbs who had begun to shake. “Captain Simmons?” she asked, voice thin enough to break. A second later and she’d dived behind a large chunk of ice.

By instinct, Grif lunged for cover, too. He didn’t think about it. He couldn’t. His mind had been filled with white noise ever since Simmons pulled the trigger.

“What the fuck?!” Bitters yelled, pressed against the ice where the path began to turn. From there he could turn his head to stare at Grif, and it was at this eye-contact that Grif realized that he was the one who had to do something.

Simmons walked towards the voice with stiff, calculated steps. He reminded Grif of a Stormtrooper in the worst way possible.

Just before he could get an angle on Bitters – or vice versa – Grif jumped from his cover to body-slam Simmons. His weight was enough to throw the lean soldier off balance. Before he could retaliate, Grif had grabbed onto his rifle and threw it away. He didn’t see where it landed but as long as it was away from Simmons’ hands, it’d be enough.

“SIMMONS!” he yelled to snap him out of it, but Simmons didn’t even slow down as it became his turn to lunge at Grif, pressing him against the tall wall of ice behind him. The guy was surprisingly strong, Grif realized in horror, and before he could be pinned completely, his hand shoved upwards to tear the maroon helmet off.

The sight of Simmons’ eyes was like a fist to the stomach.

The cyborg eye was still the green color that Grif had become so familiar with, but the light in it was blinking in a slow, steady pace. And the other…

There was no pupil to judge. The eye had rolled to the back of his head, showing only white. As if he was sleeping. Unconscious.

Grif just had the time to be absolutely horrified before Simmons lashed out at him with his knife. When had he even learned to use that thing? He yelped in pain when the blade slashed across his torso, but he managed to stumble away before it became an actual stab wound.

But from the lack of emotion in Simmons’ haunting stare, it didn’t seem like it’d last long before the dagger would lunge for him again.

“Fuck,” he swore and pressed a hand against the bloody spot.

Bitters was firing at Simmons who was forced to move away. He kept a tight grip on his dagger – he was using his left arm, Grif realized, and it kept shaking.

He slammed his hand against his helmet to start the call. He didn’t care which channel he was broadcasting the message on; he chose them all. He just needed someone to hear the S.O.S.

“We need help,” Grif called out. There was a scream from Tibbs when Simmons reached her. “Simmons is attacking everyone.” He could hear the surprised and confused exclamations from numerous different voices, but he didn’t have the time to reply. “I think he’s being hacked. His cyborg parts are all weird and his eye is-“

He yelled in pain when the knife hit his flesh, right near his elbow where there were no plates to protect him. It sunk in deep this time; he knew that from the burning pain that followed.

Simmons’ right hand had grasped him by the chest plate, keeping him still, while his left hand prepared for the killing blow.

So Grif did the one thing he could do. He tore off his own helmet.

“Simmons.”

The knife stopped an inch away from his face.

Grif couldn’t breathe. The blood was rushing to his head, drowning out the noise around him. It didn’t really matter. Simmons wasn’t speaking.

He was just staring at him, frozen. The light in his cyborg eye kept blinking.

And then, just for a second, the pupil rolled back down. His human eye was dull, glazed over with exhaustion, but it focused on Grif.

The walls groaned when ice exploded around them. Chunks and shards grazed his face, and Grif stumbled away half-blind, just barely recognizing the orange armor of Bitters who had thrown the grenade.

He was preparing another one, all while staring at Simmons who looked unfaced while the blood streamed from the scratches on his forehead and cheeks. The right eye had turned white again.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

It took too long for Grif to realize it wasn’t his own voice that was yelling. He didn’t have enough air in his lungs to do that.

It was Simmons who was currently screaming at Bitters while having planted himself in front of Grif.

Shielding him.

That was the situation: one dead soldier, one bleeding out, Bitters aiming at Simmons, Simmons raising his dagger.

And Grif-

He had to stop this.

He rushed forward.

A metallic hand slammed against Grif’s chest with enough force to have the following _crack _echo in the enclosed space. He hit the ice, too worried about the breath stuck in his throat to notice the immediate pain.

He didn’t even realize he’d passed out until he opened his eyes again.

Now they were alone.

Grif groaned as he pushed himself up with a shaking palm. Smaller chunks of ice fell from his body in the process, and he widened his eyes at the sight of the damage.

Part of the glazier had fallen, resulting in a mess across the narrow pathway. A wall of blue ice had collapsed, blocking the way from where they’d come – and blocking their access to the others.

Judging from the lack of blood in the snow, their squad must be on the other side of the debris of ice.

And Simmons was-

“Simmons,” Grif coughed while stumbling to his feet. His chest burned at the action. The pain wasn’t unbearable unless he pressed a hand against his ribs – _that _hurt like a bitch. But as long as he didn’t touch the spot, it just felt like a scrape – deep enough to reach his organs, warm and sore, but nothing like the imaginary dagger stabbing him.

His right hand reached for his rifle while the other hand limply at his side, bleeding, but when he finally spotted the weapon, Simmons was already picking it up. His movements were stiff but controlled, and like a robot he reloaded the gun without even looking at Grif.

He was staring at the debris, as if waiting for someone to burst through it.

“Simmons?” Grif said. His eyes couldn’t help but drift to the weapon instead of Simmons’ face, though both were equally terrifying. “C’mon, snap out of it.”

Bitters must be on the other side. Grif tried to convince himself of that. His head still hurt to remind him of the fact that he had blacked out. Bitters had been on his own while Grif had been out of it, but the Lieutenant was smart; he must have caused the ice to collapse.

It was a clever move. It would have saved him from Simmons.

Aaaaand it had trapped Grif with Simmons.

But Grif could forgive that. Bitters had to be alive (because if not, they were royally screwed, and, you know, Grif may have grown fond of the kid) so he could call for help. Meanwhile, Grif had to make sure that Simmons wasn’t alone.

He reached out to touch Simmons’ shoulder – and was immediately rewarded with a gun pointing straight at his forehead. Behind the weapon were Simmons’ strange eyes, cold and emotionless.

“Okay. Okay, no touch,” Grif said as he backed away. He held up his hands for good meassure. “Geez. You’re in a mood.”

The sound of dripping water echoed in the enclosed space. Light shined from above, just weakly, through cracks in the ice. Grif almost felt uncomfortable surrounded by the blue color. He’d been among Sarge for too long.

But the most important fact; he was pretty sure that he could hear knocking. Faint, but it was there.

He knew it was real when Simmons aimed at the blocks of ice.

“Bit-“ he said but was cut off by the deafening gunshots. The stabbing pain was back when he jerked in surprise. It made it difficult to catch his breath.

Simmons didn’t even hesitate to fire a round into the ice. Splinters were sent flying around them.

“Relax,” Grif said when he finally stopped shooting. “They’re on our team. Remember?” He took a step closer, ignoring how Simmons had begun to reload again. Dried blood was sticking to his pale face, but he didn’t seem to notice. Grif didn’t want to imagine how beat up he looked himself. “C’mon, Simmons, you got to remember.”

Simmons’ eyes flickered; a green light in the left one, a pupil appearing in the right eye.

Grif’s heart skipped a beat.

“Grif,” Simmons said, voice hoarse and desperate.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it!” Grif said, forgetting his own shortness of breath. It didn’t matter now. “We start with me, and then we’ll work our way towards, well, everything else.”

“Grif,” Simmons said again. A single teardrop fell from his human eye.

It froze before it could land on the snow beneath them.

Grif would have been more relieved at the sign of actual emotion, but he didn’t miss the way Simmons’ finger stayed on the trigger. The weapon was still pointed at him.

A second later, when Simmons’ eye had rolled back in his head, Grif retreated into the shadows of the pathway. He leaned against the cold ice as he walked down the frozen path. Bitters may have blocked the way they came from, but it should lead-

He found the dead end in less than a minute.

When he turned around, he found Simmons standing a few meters behind him, still pointing the rifle at him.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t shoot him.

He just looked like he might.

Grif decided to take the chance and limp back towards the debris. He couldn’t help but shudder as he passed Simmons who was still stuck in defensive mode. If he pulled the trigger, it would be it.

But he didn’t.

Grif had to find comfort in that but it was nowhere near enough to quell his worries. He was cold, he was sore, and Simmons’ behavior was downright terrifying.

But they’d fix it. Carolina had Epsilon, and he was smart. They’d fix it. Of course, they had to find them first, and pin Simmons down, and Grif would have to survive until that point, but then- _then _they’d fix it.

By the time he collapsed next to the chunks of ice, his face felt frozen. When he reached up to rub some warmth back in his cheeks, frozen tears fell between his fingers.

His torso, however, felt warm. He expected it with a careful hand and found fresh blood on his palm. The scratch wasn’t deep, he decided. It was worse with his left arm. Simmons had gone all stabby with that attack.

But he wasn’t bleeding out, though, so he settled with pressing handfuls of snow against the bleeding spots.

He leaned his head back against the ice, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and looked at Simmons. He couldn’t just account for his own injuries; he had to take care of the cyborg, too.

The obvious problem was the brainwash, but Grif couldn’t do anything about that, yet. He’d tried, of course, but so far, he just had to settle with Simmons not outright murdering him. They’d fix the rest later, of course. There was blood on face, frozen streaks, but the real head injury had to be inside his brain.

His left arm, the cybernetic one, kept twitching – at least it was his right hand that was in charge of the trigger. But Grif began to spot the spark flying between the armor plates and the black liquid that had begun to seep through.

Bitters must have hit him. Huh. The lieutenant had practiced his aim after all.

It wasn’t blood, Grif reminded himself. It was just oil. Fixable. This was all fixable.

They just had to wait.

And the best way to wait was to sleep. Grif had learned that much in his life. His body was practically screaming for a nap. You couldn’t feel pain when your brain was asleep.

Grif really hoped that was the case with Simmons right now.

He sighed, glancing up at the cyborg who was pacing near the debris. His grip on the rifle had only tightened.

Well, if he should kill Grif, at least he’d go in his sleep. It’d be alright.

Grif closed his eyes, trying to find a comfortable position among the ice and snow. It reminded him of Sidewinder, actually. It wasn’t weird that Simmons had been confused about the memory before losing his mind.

They had been cold and bruised back then, and while Caboose had sobbed over Church, they’d collapsed in the snow to rest together. It hadn’t been a conscious choice; they’d just been so tired, and the snow had seemed so soft, and it’d been so cold, and they’d rolled closer to each other to share warmth – for survival, of course, nothing else.

Right now, it was just cold.

The pain in his chest kept spreading, like a weight being added to it. Broken ribs, probably. Grif had become a bit too familiar with injuries during his time on Chorus. Soldiers just kept dying. Limbs were blown off, bullets pierced through skulls, wounds get infected. Right now, he could just cross his fingers that his lungs wouldn’t be punctured. He was no good to Simmons dead.

“When the others come, can you like, please not shoot them?” he mumbled as his head grew heavy. “It’d make the rescue much easier.”

Simmons didn’t reply to that. He didn’t even look at him.

“They’re gonna fix you,” Grif said as his chin came to rest against his chest plate. “So, don’t worry about that. You’ll be your old nerdy self soon.”

He kept hearing tapping in the distance, but at this point he wasn’t sure if it was someone trying to dig their way to them or just more ice collapsing. If their bad luck continued, it’d be the latter.

Grif drifted off quietly, succumbing to the numbing warmth that kept reaching his limbs. It was like a heavy blanket, surrounding his injuries, taking the pain away.

It didn’t even feel cold any longer.

He woke up when a metal hand clasped around his throat, squeezing.

He couldn’t yell. He had no air to do so. His eyes bulged, his fingers scrambled helplessly at Simmons’ hand while the cyborg pulled him upwards. His grip never faltered.

When they finally were on eye-level, Grif stared into the white of Simmons’ eye. He kicked out, his foot meeting the armor plates, but Simmons never even flinched. He just held him there, choking him.

The world was warm now. There was no cold left. But the warmth had turned uncomfortable. It was filling him, making him restless in his own skin. His own body felt wrong, too big and small at the same time. His head was buzzing, his vision was swimming.

It was blue. Blue and maroon. And white- the white of Simmons’ eyes, staring at him, watching him die.

Grif’s lips moved, but no sound left them. His fingers had grown numb now, as if the cold had gotten to them without him noticing it. They stopped slamming against Simmons after one desperate attempt to hold onto the maroon armor plate. Slowly but surely, they slid down to hang limply in the air.

He couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t think about what it meant. The _wrongness _inside his body was stealing his attention. His lungs were burning, his organs were spasming.

He was dying. His brain, even when deprived for air, could figure that out.

He was dying, and Simmons was the one killing him.

They might fix Simmons (They would. They _would _fix Simmons, of course they would) but he’d be dead, and Simmons would return to be told that he’d kill him. And there’d be no Grif to comfort him, no Grif to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that it’d be okay. The others might try to comfort him; hell, Donut would always be there with tissues, but they’d never know what to do.

They wouldn’t make sure he didn’t get up in the middle of the night to trash mirrors, they wouldn’t know which scars to caress during a panic attack, they wouldn’t know what to say when Simmons retreated into himself in his grief and stayed silent.

Only Grif knew because it was his job to take care of Simmons. It wasn’t written in the printed job descriptions that Sarge had made for them. It couldn’t be read between _Designated Bait _and _Meatshield #1. _But it was his job, and now he wouldn’t be here to do it.

The warmth in his body just _stopped_. He felt the chill just right before his eyes begin to roll back (Like Simmons’ haunted stare; the image of that wouldn’t leave his mind, not even now…) and then-

“Grif.”

The hand let go, and Grif fell into a pile of snow. A loud whine accompanied all of his desperate breaths. It hurt like fire forced down his throat, but he was grateful for each inhale.

Slowly, the cold began to seep into his limbs, and that was what snapped Grif back to reality. He turned his head – an agonizing pain spread around his throat where Simmons had held him – to see that Simmons had begun to pace again.

Grif had no voice to call out with. It hurt too much. So he just stayed there, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, and waited.

Whenever Simmons would turn to face him, Grif found himself cowering. He didn’t mean to, but the instincts had gotten a hold of him now. Simmons’ cold stare hadn’t changed from when he was dying; when he’d slowly lost his grip on consciousness while Simmons just stared at him, watching the life leave his eyes…

Time passed. The pain in his throat remained, like a too tight necklace, and his ribs screamed at every breath. But he lived. Simmons hadn’t killed him.

Grif first realized they’d been here for too long when he looked up and saw that Simmons’ lips had turned blue. The skin around them was unnaturally pale and clashed with the deep shadows under his eyes.

Grif was glad that he couldn’t see himself at the moment.

“Simmons,” he said, managing to find his voice. It didn’t sound like his own, though; it came out as a croak, too hoarse and thin. “Come sit,” he whispered and prayed that Simmons would hear him. It hurt even more to realize that Simmons did hear him; he just didn’t react to it. “You’re cold, dumbass,” he tried again. Maybe, just maybe, if they could lean against each other like they’d done back in Sidewinder, maybe Simmons would snap out of it, maybe Grif would stop feeling so cold. “You gotta sit down,” he muttered as his head fell. From this angle, he saw the shadows dance on the snow. His vision began to blur. “We…”

He woke up to the sound of Carolina’s voice.

“-let him go.”

This confused him. He tried to open his eyes but found that they had frozen shut. It took too long for him to force his eyelids apart, tearing the ice on his eyelashes, and then he looked up to see that he was dangling from Simmons’ unyielding grip.

The cyborg was holding him upright, pressing him against his own body.

Shielding him, Grif thought numbly. The realization echoed inside his head.

“M’wake-“ he muttered, but he couldn’t even hear himself.

More time was lost to him, and the next thing he heard was Carolina saying, “-a few more minutes, Bitters.”

“It can’t wait,” his Lieutenant insisted. Grif could see them, just barely; a bunch of color all mixed together. “You weren’t there; he fucking murdered her. And-“

They came. Hah, he knew they’d come. Not that he’d admit that to them, but still.

They’d fix Simmons. They’d-

“Tucker, have the medical team ready.”

“Lower the gun, son.”

Sarge. That was Sarge speaking. Grif turned his head, trying to find a way to control his numb limbs. But there; if he tilted his head, he could see the red against the blue ice.

“_He’s bleeding_,” the orange color said, horrified.

Grif opened his mouth and it hurt; the air was too cold for his sore throat, his ribs cracked when his lungs tried to expand. He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t, and even if he could, he wasn’t sure what to say.

Bullets were fired. Grif wasn’t sure if he’d blacked out again, or if this was simply Simmons’ response. He shook as the trigger was pulled, hanging limply like a ragdoll.

Simmons was so _strong_. He could hold him like this _and _fight. There was some unnoticed potential there. Red Team had a badass. Take that, Tucker.

Simmons had remembered him, just briefly. He was so _strong_-

“Watch your aim. Try to stun him, not-“

“He’s going to get Grif killed.”

They were going to get Simmons killed. Grif understood this at the sight of the black rifles, all pointed at the cyborg. He was too numb to feel the horror, but even then, he managed to get his feet to work.

He stood in front of Simmons, between the loaded rifles, and in that moment, he wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to shield.

He was facing Simmons and his empty stare. The cyborg was still holding onto the rifle, and Grif tried to reach for it with numb fingers. He couldn’t have closed his hand around it, even if he’d managed to touch it, but Simmons’ left hand moved to grasp his throat.

It only took a second.

Rifles were raised around them, panicked yells could be heard, and black drops of oil fell to the snow.

Grif didn’t fight this time. He just stared back, trying to catch a flash of the green color – the real green in the human eye that Simmons had left.

It was his own fault, after all. Simmons had become a cyborg for his sake, to save his life. So it didn’t matter if he killed him now. It was just a way to satisfy the ever-craving universe. Grif wouldn’t blame him for it. He wouldn’t hold any grudges as a ghost. He’d still haunt him, though, just to hang out with him in the afterlife he prayed existed.

The world was so cold…

“Grif,” Simmons said. The tears began to fall from his right eye as his grip loosened.

Grif drew a desperate breath.

“Ready!” a voice yelled.

“_Epsilon, now_,” Carolina screamed. It echoed against the ice.

The light died in Simmons’ cyborg eye. It just faded away.

Simmons collapsed first, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Grif watched him land in the snow. Then he fell to lie right next to him.

* * *

He woke up in a bed, staring into a familiar shade of green.

“Grif,” Simmons said. His face was hovering above him, worry etched into every feature.

Grif scrambled backwards, sinking deeper into his mattress. He didn’t mean to. His world was still a mess of blurred colors, of pain and cold and lost time.

“Oh-“ Simmons’ eyes widened in realization and hurt. He turned his head to call, “Doctor Grey!”

But Grif had seen the damage he’d caused. He tried to sit up, frantically pushing himself upwards with his right hand. The left arm had been bandaged, apparently, and was resting neatly on top of the blanket.

“Si-“ he managed to say before coughing. They seemed to tear his throat open, causing his eyes to water as he tried to deal with the pain.

Simmons’ touch was light as a feather as he reached out to put a hand on his shoulder and push him back into the bed. “You, uhm, shouldn’t talk that much. Your throat is pretty, uhm…” He winced before faking a smile. “But it’ll go away! With no lasting damage! Grey said so.”

Grif couldn’t stop staring into Simmons’ eyes. They were all normal again, all green and warm and nervous. Just like he knew him. “You’re-“

“She cleaned your wounds, too, but your ribs need some healing, and she was pretty concerned about us having hypothermia and frostbites, which is why we’re still in the hospital. But-“

“Your-“ Grif said and feebly raised a hand towards his face.

Simmons understood what he was saying. Of course he did; they knew each other too well.

He turned his head to hide his red cheeks. “Oh. Yeah,” he said while curling in on himself. “So, apparently, in order to move the cyborg limbs and stuff, there’s a connection to the neural circuit? And- and apparently Sarge didn’t install antivirus when he, you know, stuffed a printer into me? And Felix must have read that in our files because they’ve discovered that if they found the right frequency they could- they could take control of-“

He broke himself off by sniffing loudly, clearly holding back tears.

Grif tried to reach out for him but the blanket was so heavy and his arm was so tired. It wasn’t a fair battle.

“I don’t remember,” Simmons said when he’d collected himself. His fists clenched in his lap. “Grey and the others just filled me in when I woke up. They said that you- you were the one who figured out what was going on, so when they finally got to us, Epsilon was almost finished with jammer so I could snap out of it.”

Grif breathed in deeply. They’d fixed him, just like he’d believed they would. Hell, they’d even managed to save him, too.

That had to be one of Red Team’s few victories.

“I can’t believe I…” Simmons said before he finally broke into loud sobs. His shoulders shook as he retreated back into his hospital chair.

“S’not your fault,” Grif said. His voice was still hoarse but it least it managed to work now.

Simmons blinked and tears stuck to his eyelashes. “I killed Pike,” he whispered in shame. “And almost Tibbs, too. And I hurt you and I would have killed-“

“You snapped out of it.” It was easier to force the words past his lips now, because he _needed _to speak. He _needed _Simmons to hear him. So he sat up again, grateful for the painkillers they must have pumped into his system, and reached for Simmons’ hand. “On your own. ‘cause you were beating my ass but you didn’t kill me, Simmons. And then you tried to shield me in your own messed up way.”

Simmons hesitated for too long before he finally let his fingers intertwine with Grif’s.

Grif had hated his emotionless stare, but the look of guilt and shame that was now haunting Simmons’ eyes wasn’t much better. “I still-“

“You remembered me,” Grif insisted, giving his hand a squeeze. Simmons’ hand was so warm, burning him in the most pleasant way. “The entire time we were in there, you could have killed me, but you didn’t. Dude, Felix must be cussing you out somewhere. You screwed up their entire plan by being so fucking strong.”

Simmons cried again. Fat tears rolled past the wounds on his face. The blood, at least, had been washed away.

Now they just needed to heal.

Grif knew that he’d be telling Simmons it wasn’t his fault the rest of their lives. Simmons would need to hear it every day, and it’d probably take years before he’d begin to believe him.

He was stubborn like that.

Luckily, Grif shared that stubbornness.

“You look cold,” he said. Simmons’ lips were no longer blue, but there was still bags underneath his eyes, revealing his exhaustion.

Grif was so fucking grateful he couldn’t remember what had taken place. The_ what if’_s were difficult enough to deal with.

“I’m fine,” Simmons said while straightening his back. He would pretend he was fine from now on, and he’d apologize and nod and claim that he was alright, while the guilt would eat him from the inside.

But Grif was here, and he would deal with it. He knew how to do so. “Well, I’m cold,” he said and crept further under his blanket for emphasis. “And you owe me some snuggling time.”

Simmons hesitated but he couldn’t resist. Not when Grif knew him that well.

The bed wasn’t big enough for both of them, but it didn’t matter. It was much warmer when they were pressed against each other like this.

“Grif,” Simmons sighed into his neck, breaking in a familiar way.

Grif found comfort in that and kissed him back.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Crea made this wonderful drawing of feral Simmons and I knew I had to write for it. Check out the drawing here: https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/187564609702/been-thinking-about-how-i-want-simmons-to-go
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed this one-shot. Gotta love that whump with happy ending. (also, we all need more knife!Simmons).
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr and twitter.


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